Far Away From Home
by SillyGoy
Summary: A young man of a rural background from a very foreign country has journeyed halfway around the world to get to his new job. Heh.
1. Prologue

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* * *

**Far Away From ****Home  
**_A short story by a silly goy_

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In the deafening silence of the night, the susurrations the brush made was stark as crouching silhouettes briskly walked through them. What little light there was, given off by a full, silver moon, was made irrelevant by the shroud of the forest canopy which cast a ubiquitous blanket of shadow upon everything under it. The machete went unused, as they did not wish to attract unwanted attention, as like shadows they navigated through the thick undergrowth as fast and as inconspicuously as they could. Meanwhile, in the distance, staccato gunfire could be heard, muffled by the thick, gnarled bark of the trees and bamboo that towered over these anonymous, rifle-clutching men.

Their pointman was a skilled tracker, and weaved around the wood and vaulted over fallen logs like they were nothing. Juan, as well as the rest of the troop, wasn't faring as well. He had tripped once, then he had tripped a second time, and it was becoming a struggle to check his footing in the almost unbearably dark conditions with soreness building up in his legs. He was sure he would end up face-down in the mud a third time, but somehow he managed to keep himself together till they reached the checkpoint.

"Hold," Balagtas whispered, raising an almost imperceptible fist in the air as he came upon the edge of a clearing. The clumsy tumble of harsh footfalls heralded the arrival of the rest of his squad, which he regarded with mild annoyance. Then again, he was working with who and what could be spared, and beggars couldn't be choosers. "We're here."

"Here?" Rhizo echoed, his voice colored with mild inflection; it was not a whisper, what he uttered, and was punctuated with light panting. "Where's here?"

"The objective, you idiot! Keep it quiet; do you want to get us all killed?" Balagtas admonished, however silently he could, and he was half-expecting lasbolts flying their direction by the time he finished, though thankfully they never came, and the chirping of a nearby insect remained undisturbed.

The veteran guerrilla scanned with his hardened eyes what little hints of color could be discerned from the scene before him. A lack of trees in the area made for a lack of canopy, which allowed the moonlight to helpfully pour in. Some still moments went by till he finally picked out a small, queer shape: boxy, straight-edged and man-made, and at just some distance away, in the middle of the clearing. He squinted a bit, and noticed the marks of flattened grass, following them to discover a trail thereof, and seeing the distinctive swells of gouged earth.

"What do you see, boss?" Figuera asked, though he got no response. Balagtas merely thought for a moment, then nodded decisively.

"Rhizo, Villanueva, go check it out. Juan, you have the flashlight; go join them. We'll cover you from here."

At this order, the three youths looked at each other, however inaccurately they could given the darkness. Villanueva hesitated, gripping his Springfield tighter, and it took an admonition from Balagtas to get him to step out of the safety of the brush.

The city boy from Manila walked cautiously in the wake of the rural Rhizo and Juan, and kept the body of his rifle at his cheek at all times as he advanced. A sudden noise bid them to stop, however, sending them prone to the ground, but they got up after their minds registered the intrusion but the cry of some bastard monkey in the branches. They closed the distance between them and their objective with caution, treading softly and daring not to make any sudden moves, not even a twitch. Even with their comrades covering them from behind, the fear and the trepidation were real and powerful. Famed as they were as Huk scouts, against the Neuroi, everyone was equal.

Rhizo was the first to the object of interest. He leaned a bit here and there as he felt around. Then he turned and waved at Balagtas, signalling an all clear. Promptly did their squad leader gesture for the rest of the troop to move forward, as Juan shouldered his rifle and activated the flashlight. He frowned and clicked his tongue in a disgusted 'tsk' as he shone the light at his feet.

"Juan, what do we have?" Balagtas asked, as he approached. The rest of the men fanned out, having learned, some first-hand, that bunching up lead to disastrous consequences. Juan glanced at his senior and shook his head, before looking down once more.

The most obvious sight would be her uniform: prim, proper, standard issue and in drab, green USAAF colors that covered her from collar to thigh, though some buttons had been torn out to expose her white undershirt, offering a generous helping of cleavage from her substantial chest. Then there was her face, strangely different in shape and feature, but also very pretty, with her complexion fair and her hair a charming bright orange color. But there was also the blood, and lots of it. Blood that had already dried, once flowing in a rivulet from her nostril, blood that formed large, dark splotches over her stomach, staining her clothes. When he swiveled his eyes to the right, the way in which one of her strikers bent indicated a broken leg. And when he reached down to feel her neck, there was no pulse. Deathly cold was what his fingers felt.

"She's dead, sir," Juan offered lowly.

"Well, shit," Balagtas remarked, and put a fist near his mouth to think. "We can't be dragging a corpse around. Take her dogtags and let's go."

Juan promptly did so, "Yes, sir," ripping them from her neck, then standing up and dousing his flashlight. Like ghosts, he and his troop left the scene quickly, leaving what was once a strike witch to the mercilessness of the jungle. But when he gave the corpse a final look back, he could swear, for but an instant, that she was returning the stare. Hanging back for a moment till shrugging off superstition, he continued on, almost forgetting her by the middle of the return trip.


	2. New Arrival

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* * *

**Far Away From ****Home  
**_A short story by a silly goy_

* * *

But then a bump on the dirt road jolted him into wakefulness. The ceiling pounded with his head, which the sudden pain encouraged for him to immediately hold. His bleary eyes, which had just shot awake, swiveled around in confusion, adjusting with painful slowness to the bright light of day. More irregularities on the road sent vibrations throughout the truck as it traveled under the shadow of venerable, tall pine, and the coolness of the air was alien to him as it blew through the window. The scent of the wind, too, was unfamiliar. When he looked to his left, stretching languidly meanwhile, the smiling man in khaki uniform who shoved the gear lever forwards was the the final reminder that he wasn't home.

"Sorry 'bout that, mate," the Britannian private said, his voice rushing the morbid dream into forgetfulness. "Yeah, road's a bit bumpy this way headin' on, but we're near the base. Think you can stay awake till then?"

Juan furrowed his brow a bit, and pursed his lips, thinking of a response while attempting to decrypt the message behind the accent. Perhaps he was taking it a little too long, though, as the soldier probed with a "Well?" But by then he had formulated a response.

"Yes," the Filipino ventured, with so rough an accent that it would have been alright spelled 'yis.' "I think I can."

"Well, that's good," the driver replied, as he flicked his eyes between his unusual passenger and the road ahead. Rather short, the Oriental was dressed in simple trousers and a buttoned cotton shirt whose whiteness stood in stark contrast to his dark, brown skin. He had neatly trimmed hair, a 'do not reaching his ears, and on his lap was a straw hat he had been wearing when he arrived at port earlier in the day; and at his feet was a small cloth sack that seemed to be full to bursting. He was also thin, the Britannian noted, but not quite as lanky as he was. As he shifted his grip a bit on the steering wheel, he was reminded of how his clothes always seemed to be one size too big for him.

"Say, good morning and all," the driver said, collecting his thoughts, "but you never told me where you were from. Judging by your eyes… China, right? You a Johnny Chinaman?"

The now fully-awake Juan pointed at himself with all the five fingers of his left hand. "Me? Where I'm from? No, I am not Chinese," he said, easily enough, though it was rather obvious that he was still struggling with English. Instruction in Thomasite-run classrooms could only do so much, and he never had any real practice till the war broke out and he mingled with Liberion troopers. "I am from Philippines. I am a Filipino."

"Philippines, eh?" the driver furrowed his brow a bit, thinking. "Never heard of it."

What? Was he sure of that?

"Are you sure you do not know?" Juan asked incredulously. "We are invaded by the Neuroi!"

"Well, to be fair, everyone's been invaded by the Neuroi," the driver pointed out. "Philippines, Philippines," he mused, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "That's… near New Guinea, is that right?"

"I do not know what that is," Juan admitted, in a rather brusque manner given his unfamiliarity with the language. The soldier chuckled at that, prompting the former guerrilla to do the same. Whether he was laughing with him or at him, Juan didn't really know for sure, but it was good to share some laughs nonetheless.

"Well, I'll go look it up on a map later. I don't think I need to tell you that I'm around here, though. Britannia, I mean."

"Oh? Where exactly you are from in here Britannia?"

"Around here, actually. Dover. What about you, what town did you come from?"

"Oh, I am not from a town. I was born in a village."

"I see."

At that point, the truck cleared the woods, and the road curved to follow the edge of a high cliff, separated from a long fall only by a thin iron railing. But what caught Juan's eyes was the emergence of a bright, sparkling expanse of blue, stretching widely to cover the entire breadth of the horizon. With some delight, his nostrils picked up the familiar salty smell of the sea, and his skin, the cool winds that came with it. Individual columns of the safety rail had whirled into blurry images at the speed and distance that they traveled from them. The Filipino couldn't help but smile at the familiar sight of the ocean blue, crowned by a sky only slightly less vibrant and speckled with white, happy clouds.

"Yeah, good view, isn't it?" The driver then extended an arm to point at the distance. "If you squint, you can probably make out the shores of Gallia."

"That close, huh?" Juan remarked, as he did, in fact, see hints of land far away. "You can cross this sea with a _bangka_ in just a few hours."

"Say, what was your name again?" the driver asked, changing the topic. Juan turned his head to look at him.

"My name? Uh. I am Juan," he extended a hand, remembering what he could about Western social codes. "Juan Innocencio Torreda."

The driver took his hand and shook it firmly. "William. William McMoggers. Good to meet you, Wan."

"Yes, yes," he nodded twice. "You too, William. You are Britannian Army soldier?"

"Yeah," William said, shifting a gear down to negotiate with a tight turn. "Drafted. Haven't seen any actual combat, just duty here in the homeland, drivin' lorries. Not as exciting as being on the front lines, but it's safe and peaceful. Most of the time, anyway. So what do you do?" He shifted a gear up. "Hell, what are you even doing so far away from home?"

Juan gestured dismissively. "Eh, I was a soldier too, like you."

William gave him an interested look, smiling. "Is that so, mate?"

"Yes, yes," Juan nodded twice. "I was in a organization called the Huk scouts. My rank is corporal. I used to do guerrilla fighting in my country."

"What, for truth? How many aliens have you killed?"

"Well, just a few," he gestured nonchalantly. "Most small-types, one time a medium-type."

"A medium," William echoed incredulously. "How'd you manage that?"

"Ah, well," Juan settled in the cushioning of his chair, glad to be making some conversation. "We were defending a small parish called San Lorenzo, and there was a bridge. We had a thirty-caliber machine gun, and also dynamite from a mine that was near, so they, so they did not-"

"They couldn't break through?"

"Yes, they couldn't break frough. They were hiding in the jungle, you see? And if they showed themselves, BANG BANG BANG!" He gestured vividly, the sudden exclamation admittedly startling William, though he didn't show it. "They would die. So because of this, they send a medium-type. Very big, very square in shape, and was walking on four legs like a very big pig."

"Yeah, I've seen those types in the papers. Those things are monstrous, or so I hear and read. How'd you manage to take it out?"

"We were warned by one of our scouts that it was coming, but we did not have anti-tank weapons. _Wala na kasing bala ang aming ATR, eh_."

"Sorry, what?"

"Uh, that is, we had no more bullets for our ATR's. So what we did, was we rig the bridge up with the dynamite, and we retreat from it. I help set it up, and I was also the one who was carrying the detonator. So when the medium-type was crossing,"

"You blew the bastard up," William finished.

"Oh yes. Very loud explosion, _parang malapit na kilat!_ So the medium-type was destroyed, but also the bridge, so the farmers were very angry with us."

"Well, at least you fended off that attack. Good job!"

Juan chuckled. "Very fantastic tale, no?" he grinned at him. "You do not believe me?"

William but glanced for an instance at his passenger's scarred and calloused hands. "Oh no, I believe you. You don't seem like the type to, say, aggrandise himself like that."

"Thank you, thank you," Juan nodded twice, not knowing what the long word meant, but accurately discerning the Brit's meaning well enough anyway. "You are one of the few people who believe my story. When I tell it to others, even my own friends back in my country, many of them say I am a liar. So thank you."

"Hey, don't mention it, mate. Tell you what, when I'm on down-time and we meet again somehow, I'll buy you a drink for killing one of those alien sons of bitches. That sound good?"

"Oh, no need," Juan gestured dismissively. "But thank you very much."

"But what are you doing here now, though? So far away from home?"

"Ah," Juan licked his drying lips. "Well, I have a new job here now, at the Mont Saint Michel fortress."

"Yeah? Doing what?"

"Don't know exactly," Juan admitted, shaking his head. "Will find out when I meet my _amo_. My employer."

"Who might that be, if you don't mind me asking?" William said, as he gently pulled on the steering wheel here and there to navigate the final few turns, till the checkpoint was in view.

"I will see her soon. We have arrived."

"That we have," William agreed, ignoring Juan's evasiveness, as he stepped on the brake pedal and halted at the signal of a trooper uniformed similarly to him, who then stepped to the truck and was handed a clipboard. Giving it a cursory, uninterested look, he returned it quickly to William and, after eyeing the brown-skinned Oriental curiously for a bit, simply said, "Alright, you can go."

The guard lever was raised, and the truck sped slowly on the crunching cobble of the land bridge that joined the fortress with the Britannian mainland. An aging structure, they hadn't appeared to find the time or the resources to pave the carriageway with asphalt or cement, but that took nothing away from the grandeur of the high marble of the castle just within reach. Humongous, it gradually came to fill up Juan's vision as it neared, and caught the light of the sun on one great side to drape the other in dark shadows. Tall spires like nothing the rural Oriental had ever seen pointed towards the sky, with the highest being the one at the center of the citadel like it were scraping the very heavens themselves. Adding to this effect was the palpable crashing of the waves against the face of the bridge below, and it took a quip from William to get Juan to realize that his jaw had dropped.

"Majestic sight, ain't it? Yeah, it was pretty breathtaking the first time I saw it."

"Rich people must have built this," Juan accurately surmised, leaning out of the window as the truck passed through the shadow of the castle gatehouse. When he looked up, the iron spikes of the secured gate itself glinted menacingly, convincing him to behave and retreat back into his seat. "This must cost much money."

"No kidding," William agreed, as he made a right turn to follow the dirt road leading towards the warehouses. Juan, meanwhile, glanced around, apparently finding the fortress to be larger within its outer walls than without, and noted with quite some interest a few sections of forest that apparently had either been left alone during construction or were planted there on purpose. As they circled the central citadel, mighty and imposing with its gargantuan buttresses, the Oriental noticed something queer.

"There are little people here," he said, as they passed through a parking area, eyeing with confusion a few civilian cars that were sitting there idly.

"At all times, yeah. The garrison's just a few hundred men, and most of the time they're either inside the citadel or patrolling the battlements. The cars," William pointed, "are from the journalists. They're supposed to receive Leftenant Hartmann for getting two hundred kills. You know Erica Hartmann?"

"Oh yes," Juan grinned brightly, and appeared to be delighted at the new topic. "She is very good strike witch from what I hear!"

William couldn't help but grin as well, as he slowed and turned a sharp left to drape the truck in the shadowy interior of the warehouse. "Witches are so popular people halfway around the world know about them, huh mate?"

"Of course, but I don't read about her on the paper."

"You heard about her from the radio, then?"

"No, not radio. I learn from her from a Karlsland businessman who came to my island."

"While the war is raging in your country?" William said, as he brought the truck to a stop and pulled the handbrake back.

"Yes. Interesting man."

"Sounds like it," he agreed, as he turned and pulled the key. "Well, we're here."

Juan noted the juxtaposition of the low growl of the idling engine to the sudden silence the moment after, perhaps because of the fact that automobiles where he came from were something of a rarity. Picking up his trusty cloth sack by the strings and donning his straw hat, he stepped onto the smooth concrete floor with a fleshy reverberation from his sandals, and closed the passenger door with a resounding echo. Swinging his sack over his shoulder, he looked around and noted the sheer size of the building's interior, with light pouring in rays at the top of the far wall through large windows ribbed with latticed ironwork. He could not help but give a whistle, as some men in grey, whom he ignored, began to offload crates and boxes off the back of the lorry. The only other time he had been in such an expansive structure was when he slept in one of the ruined hangars of Clark Air Base, at the start of the Neuroi invasion.

The entire thing gave Juan pause. Perhaps it wasn't fully ingrained into him yet, as the journey thus far had been incredibly surreal, but now that he had arrived at his new place of labor, the alien coolness of the wind at this time of the year sunk the point deep into his skull: this was a new era of his life.

"So you're off to see your employer, right, mate?" a voice to his left, given a somewhat ghostly color by a small following echo, sounded, bringing him out of his thoughts to look at William once more.

"Yes. But, I don't know where to go," Juan admitted.

"Hm, well, I've got time till they finish offloading the stuff inside the lorry. Who's your employer, then? I could help you to 'im."

"Ah, that could be hard."

"Hm? Why would it?"

"Well, you see," he looked away for a moment. "My employer,"

"Yeah?"

"My employer is Erica Hartmann."

William chuckled heartily, then put his fists on his hips while grinning. "Good one, mate. Now who is it, really?"

Then he noticed that the Oriental wasn't laughing with him.

"Oh."


End file.
